columns supporting archways of rich granite and toward the infinity pool and expansive stone deck beyond.
“Everyone has secrets,” she said, pausing to lean on one of the columns and stare up into the broad skylights. “But this …this is just a little overwhelming.” She then glanced down at the stone floor, whose intricate patterns had taken the artists and world-renowned architects months to conceive and years to complete. Miguel would tell her about that later, once he gave her the full tour. For now, they needed to get to their seats before his father began the presentation.
However, he couldn’t resist stealing one last moment to marvel over her shoulder-length curly hair that caught the late-afternoon sun just right, glistening like black volcanic sand. He stood there, a twenty-two-year-old with a raging libido, imagining what they’d do later on. She was as svelte as any runway model but remarkably athletic, too, and for the past month he had explored every curve of her young body and spent many long moments staring into her deep brown eyes, flecked with a half-dozen shades of gold. He shifted to her, quickly stole a kiss. She giggled. Then he grabbed her by the wrist. “Come on. My father will kill me if we’re late.”
She nearly tripped and fell as they rushed forward, because she wasn’t looking ahead but gaping at one of the three expansive kitchens with bars that could seat twelve and the attached banquet hall, with seating for nearly one hundred. To their right and left shimmered more of the stonework soaring toward twenty-foot ceilings. He would tell her all about the furniture that his father had imported from all over the world, with stories behind many of the pieces. The tour would take several hours, he knew, and he hoped they’d have time to visit the library, gym, media room, and indoor shooting range before retiring for the evening. She had no idea of the length and breadth of the home, and yet as he showed it to her, she would not only learn more about him but a lot about his father, Jorge Rojas.
“I’m more than a little nervous,” she said, squeezing his hand as they reached the end of the long hall and were about to step outside onto the mottled pavers of the pool deck.
Castillo was standing there, as he always did, a six-foot statue in a dark suit with earpiece and dark glasses. Miguel turned and said, “Sonia, this is Fernando Castillo. He’s the security chief for my father, but he still sucks at playing Call of Duty …”
“That’s because you’re a cheater,” said Castillo with a slight grin. “You hack all those games — I know it.”
“You just need to learn how to shoot.”
Castillo shook his head, then removed his sunglasses, revealing that he had but one eye; the other was stitched closed. She flinched but still took his hand.
“Very nice to meet you,” he said.
“You, too.”
“I didn’t want to be rude to such a pretty lady,” he said, replacing his sunglasses. “But sometimes it’s better that I keep these on, huh?”
“It’s okay,” she said. “Thank you.”
They shifted away and began filtering through the knots of people standing around dinner tables that encompassed the pool. Miguel whispered to her, “Don’t let him kid you. He sees more with that one eye than most people see with two.”
“How did he lose it?”
“When he was a boy. It’s a sad story. Maybe I’ll tell you sometime, but tonight, we drink expensive wine and have fun!” Miguel wriggled his brows and squeezed her hand.
Four different poolside bars with bartenders manning each kept the wine and champagne flowing, and a banner had been erected between two of the bars, with the calm waters of the northern Pacific and a burnt-orange sky serving as the perfect backdrop. The banner read: WELCOME TO THE JORGE ROJAS SCHOOL IMPROVEMENT PROJECT FUND-RAISER. This was a one-thousand-dollar-per-plate dinner, and it was Miguel’s father’s biannual way of coaxing his rich friends to part with some of their money for a great cause. The work that had been accomplished by his father’s foundation was remarkable. The government of Mexico could not do as much to improve the education system as Jorge Rojas already had done and would continue to do.
“Miguel, Miguel,” came a familiar voice from behind them. A tightly bunched crowd of guests parted to allow through Mariana and Arturo Gonzalez, Miguel’s aunt and uncle, both in their late forties, impeccably groomed and dressed, looking as though they were ready for a Hollywood red-carpet appearance. Mariana was his father’s only sibling after the death of their brother.
“Look at you,” said his aunt, tugging at the sleeve of his dark gray suit.
“You like it? My father and I found a new designer in New York. He flew down to meet us.” Miguel would never tell Sonia that the suit cost him more than ten thousand American dollars. In fact, he was sometimes embarrassed over his family’s wealth and dismissed it when he could. Sonia’s father was a successful businessman from Madrid, a Castilian who owned a custom bicycle company (Castile) that supplied race bikes to professional teams of the Tour de France. However, her family could never compete with the kind of wealth that his father had amassed. Jorge Rojas wasn’t just one of the richest men in Mexico; he was one of the richest men in the entire world, which made life as his son both complicated and surreal.
“So this is the famous Sonia?” asked his aunt.
“Yes,” Miguel said, beaming with pride, and then, as his aunt would expect, his tone grew much more formal. “Sonia, this is my aunt Mariana and my uncle, Mr. Arturo Gonzalez, the governor of Chihuahua.”
Sonia was a perfect lady and greeted them in a tone equally formal. Her radiant smile and the diamond necklace that fell softly across her neck did not go unnoticed by his uncle. As Miguel watched her speak, he no longer heard anything and saw only her actions and reactions, the joy that swept over her face and kept her smiling, the light so intoxicating in her eyes.
Miguel’s father had introduced them after having worked on some investments with mutual friends. That she was Castilian was very impressive to his father. That she had a great ass and ample cleavage was more impressive to Miguel, at least during the initial stages of their relationship. He’d discovered that she’d attended the Universidad Complutense, one of the biggest universities in all of Europe, and he quickly learned that there was, indeed, a brain behind all that beauty. “Don’t judge me,” she’d told him. “I didn’t go to some expensive private school, but I did graduate magna cum laude.”
The summer after she graduated she spent traveling to New York and Miami and Los Angeles, cities she’d never visited before. She was obsessed with fashion and the movie industry. Her degree was in business management, and she thought she’d like to work in California for a big studio or maybe in New York for a famous designer. Sadly, her father would have none of that. He’d given her a year to find herself, but this fall she would go to work for his company. Miguel, of course, had much bigger plans for her.
“So you’re finally back from Spain,” said his aunt. “How long were you there?”
He grinned at Sonia. “About a month.”
“Your father told me that was a graduation gift,” his aunt said, widening her eyes.
“It was,” Miguel said proudly. Then he turned to his uncle. “How is it going back home?”
Arturo wiped a hand across his bald pate, then nodded. “We still have a lot of work to do. The violence gets worse.”
Mariana waved her hand. “But we’re not talking about that now, are we? Not on a night like this, when there’s so much to celebrate!”
Arturo nodded resignedly and grinned at Sonia. “Very nice to meet you. And now we’ll take you to our table. It’s right over there.”
“Oh, good, we’re sitting with you,” Sonia said.
Before they could cross the length of the pool to reach their dining area, Miguel was accosted by at least four other friends — business associates of his father’s, guys from one of his old soccer teams at USC, and at least one ex-girlfriend who turned thirty seconds into what felt like thirty hours of awkwardness as they spoke in French and Sonia stood there, looking lost.
“I didn’t know you spoke French,” she said to him, after he finally escaped from the pushy siren.
“English, French, Spanish, German, and Dutch,” he said. “And sometimes gangsta, you know what I’m sayin’, G?”
She laughed, and they took their seats around the richly appointed table with some of the finest china and flatware available in the world. His father had taught him never to take anything for granted, and while he’d led a life of privilege, he appreciated even the smallest details, like the material of his napkin or the type of leather used
